Silent Night
by CaptiveFaRaMiRheart
Summary: Wilson sighed, knowing that if he didn't say it now, he wouldn't ever say it at all.....R&R please. NOW COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I've spend several nights playing out this fic in my head like a movie. Tonight, I feel like delivering it to the world. Contains spoilers from that infamous night in "Merry Little Christmas". No slash. Just an attempt at pure angst. Please R&R. Thanks!!

DISCLAIMER: The handsome men in this fic, sadly, belong to David Shore and I'm not him. Dammit!

It had taken him nearly half an hour to realize Wilson was not coming back. Was he stupid? Thinking the wonder-boy oncologist was going to come back and clean him up. Save him from choking on his own vomit. He had stayed on the floor, managing to get at least half the pills out of his system. It was then that he came to a decision. Maybe it was because he was still so intoxicated that it didn't even make sense...

He had cleaned himself up, and somehow found himself back in the devil's office. Of course the bastard was still there. Who the hell volunteers to be in their office on Christmas?

"I'm ready to take the deal," House said to him, softly. Tritter looked up at him, and gave a little smile.

"That's off the table," he said in that soft, subtle voice that annoyed House more than any of his other unfortunate qualities. House creased his brows, pointing at the clock behind him.

"The clock doesn't expire until---"

"--- Got new evidence," he interrupted. "We don't need Wilson anymore. The thing about addicts, no matter how smart they are, they are dumb when it comes to drugs," he explained, shuffling his files around his desk." So I've been keeping an eye on the pharmacy log..."

_Oh, shit._

"...Seems some patient of Wilson's, name's Zebalusky managed to pick up his oxy prescription after he died." He smiled a little, and it was in that moment where House knew...he really was talking to the devil. Chuckling to himself, as of to say "Ha-ha, I won" , he stood up and grabbed his coat.

"Jesus walks, huh? Merry Christmas." He reached over and turned off the lamp, just before exiting his office, leaving House in the dark, speechless.

Your damn right Jesus walks, he thought. Judas, too. Selfish Judas who wanted nothing but his bank account, damn privilege to save unworthy lives, and his fucking car back. He sighed, putting his hand to his forehead. Side-effects were starting to kick in. Or maybe it was the side effects of the side effects. Whatever. Nothing made sense anymore.

He got back into his car. His head was still throbbing, as if there was a mini House in his head, banging his skull with his mini cane. He noticed his hands were lightly shaking as he placed them both on the steering wheel. His knuckles became noticeably white as his gripped the wheel...wanting to make sense of it all. Wanting to know why. Why he downed all those pills just hours before. Why he dialed his parents number. Why Chase always wanted to get on his good side. Why Stacy thought handicapped men were attractive. Why Steve liked that you're-just-going-round-and-round-you're-not-going-anywhere wheel. Why Wilson's damn ties never matched...

And that was it.

And that was it, Wilson thought. He's never going to change. Never. He sat on the edge of his neatly-made hotel bed, wanting to cry and at the same time wanting to laugh. Laugh at all the irony. He had taken a mental image of his friend lying next to his own bile. He felt nothing. For the first time, he felt nothing. Walking away was so simple and he didn't even know why. So many people, for so many years, told Wilson that man didn't deserve a friend like him...but tonight he was thinking the other way around. He wished he wasn't. Why should he feel guilty for House ruining his own life? Wilson sighed. Everything and nothing was his own fault. Everything and nothing happened because of him. He took out his cell phone, punching in the number 6.He let it ring for a few seconds.

"Dr. Cuddy," a familiar voice picked up and said.

Wilson cleared his throat. "Hey, Cuddy...its Wilson." There was a few moments of silence. Then...

"How was he?"

"He, um...I found him on the floor. He passed out. Too much pills..."

"Oh, God...is he alright?"

_I don't know. I really don't know, because I left him there. Because he looked so pathetic and I just had enough_.

"I...He was conscious," he replied, confused. Cuddy sighed, knowing the real answer.

There was only one thing on House's mind when he put his keys into the engine. He needed to see Wilson. He needed him to know that he was sorry. That he was damn sorry for causing him such misery. For letting things go this far. He drove out of the parking lot and onto the icy streets, heart and mind racing. He didn't care how late it was. Wilson was up, probably weeping over a bottle of Jack Daniel's while watching some cheesy late-night Christmas movie.

"Don't beat yourself up," Cuddy whispered over the phone.

"No, its...,"Wilson started, hoping to phrase his thoughts the right way. "...He doesn't deserve this."

He ran a red light. _So what, I'm already going to jail_. And pressed on the pedal a bit harder. Mini House somehow found 5 more mini canes to bang against his skull.

"Of course he does!"

"No--_no!"_ Wilson started, wanting to be more clear, wanting Cuddy to know. "What I mean is...overdosing and detoxing...isn't nearly half of the pain he deserves," he heard himself say. He wasn't even sure if he said it...but he was more than sure than he meant it. He heard a soft intake of breath on the other line.

"Oh, Wilson..."

House had only been to the hotel once, but he was pretty sure he was taking the right road. He remembered the day Wilson invited him. Or rather the other way around. It had been a crappy day filled with crappy patients. The only escape was each other..

Wilson sighed, knowing that if he didn't say it now, he wouldn't ever say it at all. "I just-----I just wish that something...really..._really bad_ would happen to him. So he could finally learn his lesson. So he could just, for once, shut up and open his eyes."

House was distracted from all his thoughts when really bright truck headlights came into view. He instantly shielded his eyes, taking his hands off the wheel for only a moment. The truck honked its horn as House pulled his attention back to the wheel. He swerved right to avoid hitting the truck, but he was seconds too late; The truck rammed itself onto the side of the car, sending it back. The tires screeched loudly against the wet road, before turning over and tumbling a few times. The

truck ended up on its side, and the car was upside down.

It was a few minutes later that the truck driver regained consciousness. He felt his cheeks smashed against broken glass. His head was oozing blood. He put a hand against it, to stop the bleeding. He shifted uncomfortably, crawling out the broken window. His legs were numb, and he could feel blood coming down. He picked his head up and saw the other car a few feet away. With difficulty, he

hoisted himself up and nearly crawled to the upside-down car.

"Hello?" he croaked out, calling to the other victim. He grunted against pain, and laid back down on the floor, taking a look inside the car from the broken passenger window; There was blood everywhere, but aside that, he saw the back of a man, his head down. It almost looked as if he were sitting down. The truck driver crawled to the driver's side. He would've gasped if he had the

breath. The man's face was completely covered in blood.

"Hey," the truck driver whispered, reaching out a shaking hand to tap the man's shoulder. The man didn't flinch. Didn't make a sound. Seeing a lost cause, the truck driver laid back down on the pavement, almost swearing that he was already dead. He shuddered a few breaths, and with relief, found his cell-phone still in his pocket. Still intact. With difficulty, he dialed 911, the phone against his bloodied ear.

"911 operator. What's your emergency?"

"Yeah...", the man started, nearly gasping for air. "Car crash...please, hurry,"

"Alright, sir, please hold on. We have units on their way."

"...Another guy...but I think he's already dead...please...I think I'm dying"

"Just hold on a bit longer, sir. Stay on the line with me"

Cuddy sighed, the phone nearly slipping out of her hands. "Look, this nightmare will be all over soon, but right now House needs you. He needs to know you're still his friend."

Wilson sighed, knowing she was probably right. "I know...I'll let you go now, Cuddy. Its really late...thanks for the talk."

"Anytime," she replied softly. "Merry Christmas," she added.

"Merry Christmas"

A/N: Please review!! Thanks!!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N; Thank you so much to those who have reviewed this fic!! Once I saw that practically all the reviews were "Its finished already?" I was smiling. Because I really do want to write another chapter. Who knows, maybe a few more. So thank you so much. You guys were truly the inspiration. Enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: If I owned any of these precious characters, I wouldn't be torturing their souls!

Four days after Christmas morning...

It was a nice color. Wilson did a good job at picking it out. Cherry wood. _Almost like the cane._ He supposed that was the reason why he picked that coffin. All the other ones were...dull and regular. _House isn't regular_.

Isn't.

Not wasn't..._isn't._

He watched as flowers were placed on the closet casket. Blythe had a rose in her hand. Slowly, she plucked each pedal one by one, taking it to her lips, then placing it down. John watched closely. And Wilson watched John closely. Every tear that fell was quickly wiped away. Like he had something to hide. Bastard. He really was a rock.

Cameron was crying silently, but freely. Chase held her close, trying to control his own tears. Foreman was close by, holding his head to the ground. Shoulders shaking, barely even daring to look up. Stacy was the closest one next to the casket. She was kneeling down in front of it, roses in one hand. A handkerchief in the other. Her head rested against its smooth edges. Cuddy stood next to Wilson, arms linked together with his. Her whole face was a mess; No make-up. Blood shot swollen eyes. Wet cheeks. She wouldn't stop. They just kept coming down.

Wilson was the only one. He was the only one _not_ crying. Back straight. Shoulders broad. Staring straight ahead. He didn't feel Cuddy's arm enveloped in his. Didn't hear the priest reciting from his Bible. Didn't see the soft snowflakes falling down...didn't feel them land on his face. All he could think of was how happy House must be with his own personal taste in caskets. He wondered what House would pick for him. He smiled softly at the thought of them two going coffin shopping. No one noticed the smile. It faded quickly as he began to wonder how comfortable it must be inside there.

He didn't see the priest closing his script. Didn't hear all the weeping. Didn't see John finally breaking down, holding his wife in his arms. Didn't hear condolences directed towards him. Didn't feel Cameron's slim figure against his, arms embracing tightly. Didn't hear Cuddy saying "I'll call you soon" to him, before leaving. Didn't see Stacy lingering a little bit longer after they all left.

Didn't realize he had been standing there alone for 3 hours. It had snowed. Then it stopped.

"Crazy weather, huh?" He said to House. "We should really be thinking about taking a trip to Florida." He drew a hand across his hair, brushing the snow off. "We'll do it this weekend. We'll take a few days off...spend New Year's Eve in Disney or something." He nodded, thinking the plan over.

"Think about it, House," he said, giving him one final look before retrieving back the funeral home parking lot.

Almost about an hour later, he arrived back at his hotel. He threw his keys and wallet on the counter, knocking down the lovely over-priced mini alcohol bottles. He sighed, too tired to even care if they were open, spilling out the contents. He jumped into the hot shower, and came out refreshed. He settled down in his bed, and began surfing through some channels, stopping on Conan O'Brian.

_"What a lovely show we have for you tonight! Kiefer Sutherland, from Fox's adrenaline-pumping show _"24"_ is here tonight!" _Big cheers. Conan didn't wait for them to stop. He continued on. _"We've also got Adam Sandler, promoting his new film! And Paris Hilton is here to talk about her new book about her long summer jail nights!"_. Applauses varied. In fact, they were actually "booing. Classic television. Wilson chuckled, turning the TV off, holding him no interest.

He reached over to his telephone, dialing a familiar home number. He waited for an answer, but didn't get one. Finally the machine answered:

_"If you've reached this recording, you're either really dumb for not hanging up after this long, or you actually feel the need to talk to this machine. Go ahead. Its your life." Beep._

"Hey, House," he started. "Your cell phone still seems to be out of service...get it fixed...I just wanted to see how you're doing, and to remind you that its your turn to host poker night on Friday. Let me know if you've changed your mind... Alright, see you tomorrow." he put the phone back on the hook, and turned off the lights. He snuggled himself next to the fresh comforter, and within a matter of seconds, fell soundly asleep.

A/N: Really hard for me to write...please let me know what you think! Thanks!!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks to "Finding Judas", which has just pleasantly aired again tonight, I am in my right mood to write. Thanks for all of the reviews! I hope you enjoy this one! Oh, and please excuse my use of any wrong medical terms. I'm trying my best. Thanks!!

DISCLAIMER: David Shore's.

Early morning of December 25th Two hours after Gregory House was admitted.

James Wilson would never forget that moment when he stepped into Princeton Plainsboro…

He rushed into the hospital, after an alarming call from Cuddy .Something wasn't right. House wasn't in his office. Cuddy wasn't in hers. Fucking nurses weren't even at the counter. A wave of panic struck over him. He was about to pull out his cell phone, but a familiar voice called out.

"Dr. Wilson!"

Wilson turned around to see a frightened-looking Cuddy.

"Where is he?" Wilson immediately asked, knowing something was…terribly wrong. He looked at her. There were tears desperately trying to be held back, and a look of administration attempting to be obtained. They foolishly failed. This set another wave of panic over him.

"I don't know how it happened, I don't even know if—"she started, trembling with each stumbled-upon word.

"Cuddy!" he interrupted. "Where is he?" he repeated, knowing that in a few moments, he was no doubt going to regret wanting to know. Without another word, she turned her heel and led him to the ICU.

Wilson followed. He never knew. He never knew that once he stepped into that room, once his eyes gazed upon every little detail inside, he would never be the same. Ever again.

The very first thing he noticed was the amount of damp red cloths all over the place. Then the tubes. Life support. Then the patient, who looked way too familiar.

_Please, no…..God, let me be wrong_.

He approached the patient, and then it all happened too fast. He heard a sharp intake of breath coming from his own mouth. His eyes searched the bloodied face, barley recognizable. This wasn't Gregory House. Wilson had left House on the floor. House was still on the floor.

"No!" Wilson heard himself say, refusing to make sense out of it all. He wheeled around and stared into Cuddy's eyes.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?! What kind of sick joke is this?!" he screamed at her.

"Wilson, I—"

Wilson had his hand covering his mouth, looking back at the patient. He stifled down a sob, and tried to stay strong. He then began checking his monitors.

"Why isn't anybody doing anything?" he started, frantically looking for something. An IV, a chart, anything. _God forbid if any of this is actually happening…_

"They did all they could—"

"They?"

"The doctors, they—" she started, but Wilson wasn't listening. He suddenly grabbed House's disfigured face.

"House, wake up!" he shouted.

Cuddy began to cry…

"Wilson, stop!" she said, walking closer to him.

"Wake up! Its okay, I'm here!" he began to shake his shoulders. He needed House to know. He needed him to know that he was the best damn thing that has ever happened to him. That for the past few years he was the sole reason why he came to work.

"Wilson, he's dead!"

"Don't listen to her, just open your eyes, buddy!"

Cuddy began to pull him away, but he was too fast for her. What the hell was her problem? Why didn't she want him apologizing to House? He frantically seized her shoulders and pushed her away. She backed into the wall with a loud thump. She didn't get up. She remained on the floor, witnessing something that should never be witnessed.

It was in this moment where Wilson stopped being Wilson. He turned his attention back to House, attempting to revive him. He hurriedly yanked the tubes out of his mouth, and turned off the mechanical ventilation system. He turned the defibrillator on, grabbing the paddles. He charged them, and shocked the dead body. A horrified whimper escaped Cuddy's mouth. She quickly turned away, and closed her eyes shut. Why was this happening? He charged again. And again. And again. And again, until he couldn't hold the paddles any longer. He dropped the paddles, and seized the dead body.

"_WAKE UP_!!" he screamed at House. Whimpering sobs immediately followed. His knees began to buckle, and he fell to the ground, clutching the blood-stained sheets….finally realizing he wasn't coming back.

"No", he barely whispered. His breathing quickly became short and labored."No…no,no,no,_no_." It was the only word he knew. The only word that must somehow be true. He repeated it, gasping for air each time, fighting for his own breath. He continued this until he screamed it. Screamed it so that the world can hear. Piercing shrieks. He quickly lost his voice, and began screaming in whispers. He hoisted himself up, gasping for air. He rested his head on House's chest, and wrapped his hands around his waist.

"So sorry," he whispered to the lifeless House. He held onto his body, erratically sobbing."So sorry." _Sorry for the times where I wouldn't share my lunch with you, sorry for recording over General Hospital, sorry for ratting you out to __Tritter__….sorry that I left you….sorry that __**I'm**__ not the dead one_. He held onto the bloodied clothing with a pincer-like grip, not daring to ever let go. He began to realize how tired he was. What must've been moments later, he felt soft hands pull him away from the body.

"No," he protested, but nobody heard this, because he didn't have the energy to say it, or even to open his eyes to look at the horrible person who was taking him away from House. He felt a few more hands lead him out of the ICU. The nurses placed him on a vacant hospital bed. He was already asleep as they wiped the tears from his cheeks, and the perspiration from his forehead. He didn't dream that night.

The following morning, he woke up with the biggest headache.

Gregory House was in the morgue.

A/N:Was that good enough to cause post-traumatic stress? I feel like crying. Please review, it'll make me feel better!


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thank you for the reviews!! As much as I love our dear oncologist, I feel like torturing him again tonight. My apologies. Hope you enjoy this one.

DISCLAIMER: I own season 2, but I don't think that really counts …..

4 months after Christmas day.

_"Don't flatter yourself, I'm not a marrying man."_

_"Well, I won't kiss you for it either."_

_"Open your eyes and look at me. No, I don't think I will kiss you. Although you need kissing badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how."_

_"And I suppose that you think that you are the proper person?"_

_"I might be, if the right moment ever came."_

_"You're a conceited, black- hearted varmint,__Rhett Butler, and I don't know why I let you come and see me."_

A smile appeared on James Wilson's face as he heard these words. _Gone With the Wind_ was one of the few movies he could always watch and not get bored of it. As the movie quickly cut to a commercial, he turned the TV off and reached for his coffee from the nightstand and took a sip. This April morning had started out as any other morning; he would wake up, and order room-service breakfast. Whilst sipping his coffee, he would flip through the classified columns of the newspaper, just after swallowing his little oval friend named Prozac. However this was no ordinary morning. Long before waking up, he was very well aware of the date.

It was April 25th.

It was ok to cry on the 25th (or so his therapist said). It was ok to stay in bed all day. To think back. To miss him…but just as this was no ordinary morning, it wasn't an ordinary 25th. Today he felt _motivated_. He thought about this day for the past few nights… He knew the risks. He knew that what he had planned to do could very well send him back to that very _holy_ night…but he didn't care. He had to do it.

He had dressed himself in casual clothing. Not too bland, not too formal. Just regular denim jeans, and a plain dark blue shirt. _Gone With the Wind_ was an excuse for him not to leave. Yes, it had distracted him for a nice hour, but a little voice in his head told him. "next commercial break….next commercial break." ..he had finally listened.

He locked the door to his hotel room, and got inside his car_. Don't look back…no pauses_… He started the engine, and as he pulled away from the driveway, a mental map of a familiar building came into his mind…

30 minutes later…

The key was in the doorknob, the doorknob in his hand. The only thing left to do…was to turn it. He took a few seconds, remembering his last visit. That was a different Wilson. A completely different man, a stranger even. That Wilson thought pain was a 20 hour day in the no-longer-employed-at Princeton Hospital. He shrugged the thought off, and regaining mental control, he turned the knob and opened the door.

It was exactly the same. The TV placed in front of the couch, the walls, the doors….everything.

The only thing missing was Gregory House. For a moment---a precious moment--- he felt that House was going to come out of his room, his right hand accompanying his cane.

_"Jimmy, its 10 in the morning. I know you have this unusual attraction to me, but this is getting __crazy__,"_ he would say sarcastically. Wilson smiled to himself, almost hearing his voice. He ran his fingers softly through the many stacked medical books on the shelves, wondering if House had actually needed any of them. He then crossed over to the small living room. Nothing crossed his mind, he wasn't even thinking until he actually saw it…

It was just like a movie set…the only thing missing was the actor. He stood over the shattered lamp, which was exactly in the same place where he remembered it. The bile, surprisingly, had been cleaned up…and the little orange bottle was in the same place---_the same place_ where he had kicked it. He sighed, wishing it was that night. Wishing he could've thought twice about leaving. Wishing that those few moments were changed with a different action.

And then blue collided with brown.

It was like an extended version.

House lay on the floor, panting. He looked up at Wilson, horrified. This time, his pupils weren't dilated…they were _staring into_ Wilson's eyes. His arms were desperately reaching out to him.

"Wilson….Help me," he croaked.

A small cry of horror escaped Wilson's mouth. He backed away into the couch, blinking rapidly. When he looked at the floor….House was gone. He let out another anguished cry, shutting his eyes tight. He sat there, and mourned out loud, cradling himself. Within 2 minutes, he quickly gained control, breathing in and out.

"Okay….," he said, drying his tears. He nodded, trying to convince himself to get up. "You're okay…" He moved away from the couch, looking away from the scene…but the vision was still in his mind. Wilson was shaking violently, and he tried to remind himself that daytime flashbacks were normal…but this one was more real than all the others…. Without another look, without even turning the lights off, he left the apartment, frightened.

He didn't dare get into his car in his condition, so he started to walk. He didn't know where, but he just had to walk. He kept his eyes to the floor the whole time. Eventually, he found himself in a nearby café. He sat next to window, and ordered coffee, wondering what the hell he was doing there. He tried to calm himself down, and forget the image(but could one really?). He looked around the café: Three young women were doing their thing, chatting lightly—no doubt about some great shoe sale they found. A group of teenage kids, looking deep in conversation. A businessman on his phone—by the aggravated hand movements, he must've lost some type of deal….they all seemed normal. Living their lives day-to-day, without a care in the world. Wilson envied them. He wanted to be like them. He wanted to remember how it felt just to wake up one morning and….live.

Later that night……….

He had stayed in the café until dusk, watching people, thinking to himself. Occasionally polite people would walk past his table, and offer a little smile—which made Wilson envy them more. Bastards can smile so easily, they're even offering smiles. It was half past eight when he decided to leave. He walked back to where his parked car was, but he never got inside the car. He found himself just outside the door of apartment 221 B. He knew if he didn't go back in, he would never go back at all….and he owed it to House.

"You're crazy…" he whispered out loud to himself, just before opening the door. He didn't look straight ahead. He didn't look at the living room, didn't see what's left of the dead Steve lying in his cage, didn't notice the kitchen…there was only one room he wanted to be in.

The only few times Wilson had actually been in House's bedroom were the months preceding the infarction. Once Stacy had left, Wilson took full control. He had helped him onto and off the bed. Sometimes he would stay there overnight, falling asleep on a chair next to him. When the nightmares would come, he would console him. And nothing but that had mattered.

But now the bed was empty. The sheets were still crumpled and tossed around. Wilson smiled. House _never_ liked to make his bed, or wash his dishes…but somehow everything was almost always in place. Ironic. He began looking around the room, when something caught his eyes.

Lying on the edge of the bed, threatening to fall, was a very familiar shirt. Wilson picked it up. It was a light blue blouse. Every inch was horribly wrinkled, but somehow all the buttons were still intact. He couldn't even count the number of times he had seen House wear this, usually accompanied with some white shirt underneath. He held onto the blouse , tightly pressed against his chest. Slowly, he laid himself down on House's bed. He held onto the shirt, feeling as if it was the only remains of his friend left. Without warning, he felt hot tears falling down his cheeks. He buried his face into the shirt, breathing in the scent, crying freely.

Somewhere after two hours, he had fallen asleep. And when he dreamt, for the first time in a long time, he dreamt peacefully.

A/N: I would like to thank Stevin Spielberg. If you remember a little movie called "E.T" there's this one scene where he's sick and lying on the bathroom floor. His hands extend out to Elliot's mother. It was extremely freaky and sad at the same time. I didn't copy this idea, but Wilson's hallucination reminded me of this. Anyways, I really hope you enjoyed this. Please review!!


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I want you all to know just how important your reviews meant to me. I'm _happy _that this is making you _sad_...ok, that sounds weird..but that's the point of this fic! This might be the last chapter, and then an epilogue. I never wanted this to be one of those "Your gone and I'm learning to live without you" fics, so I'm going to stop before Wilson actually learns to fully move on. Anyways...enjoy, and reviews are appreciated!

DISCLAIMER: Not mine

_February, a year and 2 months after Christmas Day_

Denial. Guilt. Depression. Another stab of guilt. Then the Cold Shoulder. Of course, with the Cold Shoulder came the attitude that you _know_ you have the Cold Shoulder.

The Denial lasted for about 2 months. Wilson was subconsciously lost, having no recollection of what happened to his friend. Only nightmares that scared the hell out of him reminded him of something that might have happened...but he was pretty sure it didn't. Wilson would wonder why House never showed up to work anymore, why his desk was cleared of all his possessions, why his ducks were slowly disappearing...one by one. He remembered somewhere close to March that his memory started giving in, and flashing images were surfaced before him as clear as a hi-def flat screen. Puzzle pieces were put together, and eventually he remembered it all.

Guilt came next. It began the night when he packed up everything in his office, leaving behind a resignation letter for Princeton-Plainsboro. _Its all your fault_, Wilson told Wilson. Wilson began to hate Wilson, but he couldn't help but thinking that it was actually true. _You left him on the floor, you wanted this to happen. You wanted him to die. You would give up your car and bank accounts for him, but when it comes to actually saving his life--you were too arrogant to care. Too selfish. You didn't want that limping, pill-popping fuckwit in your life anymore. You could do so much better anyways._ "I'm sorry, alright? It should've been me! It should've been me in that car, on that gurney---in that coffin!" _Why? So __he__ could do all the suffering? So __he__ can cry over your dead body, and feel guilty? You really __are__ selfish! You deserve what your getting._ Wilson would keep Wilson up all night long. He heard him with every tear that rolled down his face, with every bottle of alcohol consumed, with _every intake _of breath. Wilson hated Wilson. Wilson wanted Wilson to die.

With guilt came Depression. He started seeing some therapist. The therapist would say some cheesy line like "Mourning is good. Its a big step on the way to recovery." He would nod along, pretending to listen, but actually felt a growing need to throw something at him. "_Come to me when you've lost someone dear, then tell me how to cope," _he wanted to say. _"Don't quote me some memorized line from a psychology book."_ But he kept going to his appointments. He wanted his doctor to think he was recovering, even though he wasn't. Every single morning it took more than an hour to even begin _thinking_ about getting out of bed, and that was after staring blankly at the popcorned ceiling, wishing it would just--come down and crush him.

It was almost a year after his death when House's voice began kicking into Wilson's subconscious. He began thinking in a way that House would be. _"So I died, get over it. Try having an infarction in your leg, see how well you deal with your so-called 'pain'. Gosh, Jimmy, with all those tears you cried for me, you could've bathed a million little African boys..._

"It was totally your fault!"

"Was not! The kid really _didn't_ have a rebate!"

Brown curls turned around to get a glimpse of a tween boy exiting the "E-Games" store, his hands covering his face. The young woman turned back around to Wilson.

"The next customer that I see you've made cry, I'm telling Carter," she hissed playfully in his ear. Wilson chuckled, scratching his tiny pricks of stubble above his lip.

"No you won't, because then I'll be forced to tell him about the time you left the cash register open before leaving for lunch," he shot back. She sucker-punched him on the shoulder before collecting a handful of DVDs to be stacked on the shelves.

"Could I help the next customer, please?" he called out, tapping his fingers on the counter. A heavy-set bald man reached the counter, putting down an X-Box. Suddenly, small hands tugged at his too-long-to-pass-for-short sleeved shirt.

"Wait, daddy, we need to look for a game!" the small voice called out. The heavy-set man rolled his eyes at his son. He picked up the X-Box from the counter and followed him to the games. Wilson was almost about to call for the next-in-line, but a very familiar face stepped forward from behind the man...

Wilson took a double-look. He hadn't seen Lisa Cuddy in over a year. She had more lines under her eyes than he had remembered. Her hair was dyed dark red, and she had a more defined figure, if possible.

"Hello, James," she said, giving him a small smile. Wilson stared at her for a few seconds, wondering how she knew he worked here, or more to the point--what was she even doing here.

"Rachel, I'm taking my break!" he called out, keeping his eyes on Cuddy.

"Isn't that what you always do?" he heard her sarcastically reply back, but he was already exiting the small store, Cuddy in pursuit. He breathed in fresh air when he got outside, then leaned against the wall of the store, arms crossed. Cuddy stood in front of him.

"How are you doing?" she asked him, mentally noting his changes; His once defined cheeks were now not-so defined. His body was slimmer than she had remembered. Worn-out shirt and jeans. His hair was no longer groomed and in place, but now had a Jack-Dawson look to it. The small stubble above his lip actually made him look a little more attractive than usual.

He breathed in. "I'm good, I'm doing good. Working a 12-hour shift here, four times a week. Its steady, I'm getting used---"

"How many years," she cut in, "have you gone to school and practiced medicine? How much---how much time was consumed in learning the knowledge, and earning your degree?" Wilson was taken aback by this sudden flashback attack...

..But Wilson had the Cold Shoulder..

Of course, with the Cold Shoulder came the attitude that you _know_ you have the Cold Shoulder.

He shifted his feet around, comforting his position on the wall. "What do you want, Cuddy?" he said. Cuddy sighed.

"I want to know why your throwing your life away. You don't go from a well-educated, well-mannered oncologist to a ---to a ---" she threw her hands up in the air. "---to working in some _game _shop!"

"Are you my mother?" Wilson shot back. This time, Cuddy was the one who took a double-look. she never remembered Wilson being so short-tempered with anyone. "You don't get to yank me out of my job to bombard me with pointless...ramblings. Why do you care anyways? You want me back at Princeton? Is that why you came here?"

Cuddy sighed again, looking for a way to approach this 'reincarnated' bum standing before her.

"I've changed too, Wilson." she said quietly. "We all have...Cameron and Chase, they're working at Seattle-Grace now---that's a big step from Princeton...and Foremen, he's...he's doing really well, he's a surgeon now. I didn't even think that was a possible leap," she explained, chuckling.

"So the ducks have grown," Wilson muttered, not really caring.

"Yes, they've grown. They've gone _forward_, not backwards," she replied, knowing his comment was unintended for her to hear.

"Well that's their lives."

"Yes, Wilson. I want you back at Princeton. I'll pay you double and cut your hours," she said quickly, giving it a small try.

"What?" he said, taken aback. "You think this is about money? I can _retire_ right now, and not have to worry about a penny."

"Is that why you dress like you've just gone to a garage-sale? ...Please, Wilson. Just work at _some_ hospital, don't put your knowledge to waste."

For a moment, it seemed like his guard was let down a bit, and she saw a little spark of James Wilson in his brown eyes. He shifted his position again, surfing his hand through his hair.

"Medicine's not a part of my life anymore," he said. With than little spark she saw in his eyes, she saw hurt. She moved closer to him, hoping that what she was about to say wouldn't ignite too much emotion.

"Wilson...it was House who died. Not you. He wouldn't have wanted to see you like this. He would've wanted you to move on...and do something worthy with your life."

Wilson's brows immediately creased. It was an insult. What the hell would she know what House would've wanted?

_This Cold Shoulder's for you, Cuddy._

He stood up from the wall. "I have to get back to work," he said coldly, wanting her to know that her little visit with him down Memory-Lane was _greatly _appreciated. He flung the glass-door open and entered back into the store, leaving Cuddy alone outside. She watched him get back behind the counter, attending to customers. She stood there for a few moments, wondering where-oh-where did James Wilson go.

"Who was that?" Rachel asked quietly to Wilson, as he scanned the price of a used DVD for a customer.

"Some lady, needed directions for somewhere," he replied, bagging the DVD, and handing it to the customer.

"I bet you told her the wrong directions," she smirked at him, and giggled quietly.

"Everybody lies."

A/N: Reviews, reviews! Thank you so much for reading this!


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Ok, so that last chapter wasn't the last chapter...I really don't know what I'm doing. But thank you so much for the reviews!! Like always, I hope you enjoy this one!

DISCLAIMER: Not mine

He spots a pretty girl, and unintentionally works his magic. That's how it always was. Barely a year after working in the E-Games store, Wilson swore it was all happening again. This time was different. This was a real human connection--something he thought died a long time ago. Rachel understood him. She laughed with him, cried with him, and even _lived_ with him. He couldn't help but feel happy, and for the first time, a smile wasn't occupied with the guilt of actually feeling good. Future-Mrs. Wilson #4 was the _one_.

Yes, he was getting married...

--again.

This time, it felt right.

"This is crazy! Why didn't they just hop on the eagles in the first place?"

"Because there wouldn't be a story to tell."

Leaning his head on Rachel's stomach, Wilson explained to her that the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy wouldn't have been the masterpiece that it was had Frodo just hopped onto an eagle and flew to Mt. Doom. Rachel sighed.

"You know, next time, get a comedy," she said, surfing her fingers through his hair.

"Why don't you get it?" he muttered, closing his eyes, listening to her heart-beat.

"Okay then maybe I will," she said, getting up. Wilson groaned as his head plopped onto the couch. She took the DVD, and put it back in its case.

"I didn't mean literally get it now, Rach," he said, making himself comfortable on the couch.

"Where's your Blockbuster card?" she asked, ignoring his comment.

"Wallet," he answered. She walked towards the kitchen counter to retrieve his wallet.

Saturday was always their day off. It was reserved for them. Someday they would sit on the couch and watch movies all day, other days they would _go_ to the movies, nice-weather days were for walks in the park, rainy days meant they would stay in bed all day long.

"What about 'Knocked Up'? We haven't seen that one yet," he suggested, rubbing the back of his neck. When she didn't reply, he turned around. She was still in the kitchen. She had his open wallet in her hands, and was intently staring at something. Wilson's brow creased, wondering what she was looking at. He got himself up from the couch and walk towards her.

"Rach, what is it?" he said. She looked up at him, and stared at him for a few moments, then with slow hands, held up a white ID badge that she had mistakenly found. Wilson didn't need to move any closer...he knew exactly what that badge was.

"James Wilson, M.D. Head of Oncology department...Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital...?" She read off the badge and looked up at him, confused.

"James...what is this?" she slowly said. Wilson had his head down, cursing himself for even keeping that damned badge. Why--_why_ did he keep it!? The picture of him wasn't even nice, either.

"James!" she said, with more force. He lifted his head up, but couldn't bear to see the look on her face. Wilson took a deep breath. _She wasn't suppose to know_..._Its not me, its not who I am anymore._ His mind raced, thinking how he would explain it all to her.

"Yes.." he started. "I...I was a doctor."

"So you just---forgot to mention it?" she said, moving closer to him. He didn't like her tone. "Why didn't you ever tell me?" Wilson rubbed his neck again, still looking away from her.

"I just---I..."

Suddenly, he saw a smile form on her lips. He looked up at her, and it wasn't the sweet smile he _wanted_ to see.

"Oh,I get it," she whispered. "You were just...embarrassed, weren't you?"

Wilson still didn't like her tone or her smile. Or the force she used when she slammed his wallet back on the counter, still holding the ID card.

"A doctor with a whole lot of money...marrying a sweet girl who just happens to work at a _game shop! _ The irony! What _will_ they think?!" she was now laughing sarcastically, putting her hands up. Wilson sighed.

"Rachel..."

"Men! They're all the same! You know, you could've had the decency to at least _hint_ to me that---"

"Rachel, please!" he interrupted. "Let me explain."

"Okay," she said rather quickly, putting the ID on the counter. She crossed her arms across her chest. "Explain to me."

Wilson looked up at her for the first time, wishing that she would know just how hard this was for him.

"I...was a doctor for about 10 years. Yes, I made alot of money. Yes, I still have that money...I liked my job, I did. It was...a really great experience. Met alot of great people."

"So why did you quit?" she asked, listening intently.

Wilson never spoke about House to anyone. He mentioned the name to his shrink, but nothing more. It was like a hidden secret. House was a beautiful memory, and he didn't want to share it with anyone. He knew nobody would come close to understanding. He sat himself down on a chair, resting his elbows on his knees. He saw Rachel's features soften a bit, and it calmed him.

"I...had a friend. Well, he was my best friend actually. He was...unique. Very, very different," he chuckled a little, before continuing. "I'm pretty sure I was the only one in the world capable of dealing with him. Anyway...he had alot of problems in his life. He was..crippled. He was a drug addict. It bothered me that he didn't want to take care of himself...then one night he--he overdosed on some pills." His hand was now covering his face, and Rachel was seated next to him.

"I had enough, you know? I was...mad. Angry at him. I didn't want to help him anymore...I couldn't help him. I couldn't---stoop that low. Not anymore...so I left him. Next morning, he was--killed in a car crash. I just felt so guilty, I just----" He couldn't finish it. Wilson covered both hands over his face, and immediately began to cry. The last words were barley even whispered. He never heard himself say it. He never heard himself say _killed in a car crash. It_ was all too much.Rachel had gently placed her arms around him.

"I'm so sorry, James," she whispered in his ear, feeling guilty for forcing him to talk. "I'm so sorry."

Wilson wiped the tears from his face, and held his fiancée. "I couldn't go back to that hospital. I needed to erase it, I had to start over. I'm so sorry for not telling you," he explained, looking in her eyes, wanting her to know he was truly sorry for keeping such a secret.

"No, don't be sorry," Rachel whispered back quickly. "Don't be sorry. You had every right to keep this from me. You had every right." she continued to hold him, stroking his brown hair. They held each other for long minutes, when Wilson finally spoke again.

"I felt so guilty for such a long time," he muttered." I thought...you know, had I been there, had I done something differently..." he spoke carefully, knowing that he was still fragile. Wounds were still pink, memories were still close. But he had to talk. He finally needed someone to know. He wanted her to know just how important Gregory House was. How important he still is. She let him talk. She asked questions. She listened. She _cared_. He brought out an old box, filled with his degrees, his lab coat, his stethoscope. For the rest of the day, he shared stories. She laughed uncontrollably when he told her about the time he sawed half-way through his cane, or when he tricked him into taking anti-depressants. He went over so many details, so many stories. He'd almost forgotten just how fun it was to talk about him. To open up for the first time. To share something incredibly important.

That night, he sat on the couch, listening to the evening news. Finally---_finally _he could say that life, indeed, was good. A burden was lifted. Gregory House was still alive in memory, and that made him smile.

Suddenly, he felt something tug at his neck. He reached his hands up to something that felt very much like a stethoscope. Before he could even look up, he felt hot breath in his ear, and a familiar whisper.

"Calling Dr. Wilson for a full body check-up."

The stethoscope was loosened, falling to his lap. He grinned mischievously. He got off the couch, and followed the patient into the exam room...

A/N:Ahh, review please!!


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Alright, I'm serious this time...last chapter before the epilogue... Thanks for the reviews!! Enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: Not mine

Two years and 3 months since Christmas Day

In Loving Memory

Gregory House

June 11th 1959---December 25th 2007

Drizzles of soft rain hit the plaque, but were quickly wiped away with hands. Wilson found himself crouched down next to the gravesite of his friend. He traced the carvings of the words with his fingers, not even remembering the day he was asked to customize it. "In Loving Memory" was so..common. Maybe he didn't pick it. Maybe Cuddy did. Why would she tell them to write that? _Because it was the only one that fitted well, stupid_, he thought to himself. It was true. "Beloved Father and Husband"was just wrong. He wondered if House ever wanted kids. He used to be so afraid of asking him that question. _Why? Are you pregnant?_ House would probably joke, giving him an annoyed look, and Wilson would just look away, shot down. He always thought that if there was _anything _in the world that House would soften up to it would be children. Vulnerable-minded little kids, babies even. He could toy with their minds, teach them how to logically think and see the world. But there was no kids. There was no wife. There never was.

"Couldn't imagine little Houses running around," Wilson spoke lowly. It wasn't that he was embarrassed to be talking to a grave, it was that he _wasn't_ embarrassed. There were so many things he wanted to say to him, but he needed to be restrained and not get over-enthusiastic about it.

"You would've been taking twice the amount of vicodin...That over-dose really was inevitable," he joked, a smile spreading across his face. He swiped his hand over the plaque again, like a windshield.

"Getting married in June...hopefully the weather won't be like this." He briefly lifted his head up to the clouds, seeing the ominous clouds gathering together. His eyes directed back to the plaque. "Actually, that's why we planned it in June. Wanted a nice Summer wedding." He found himself lightly tapping on the plaque with his fingertips. He took a moment's pause before breathing in.

"If you could have the chance to say...one thing to me...I bet it would be that you're disappointed in me," he softly spoke. "And I would be more than happy to hear it. I need to know that...throwing away my career like that was wrong. It's not that I don't want to be a doctor anymore. I do. I really do. I miss it all. Its just...going back to that hospital. Seeing your office door with another doctor's name...It'll be so hard. I _know_ you won't be there...but I'll miss it, you know? I would be eating in the cafeteria waiting for someone to swoop in and steal my food. Or I'll be writing something really important in my office, waiting for someone to barge in. Through _both_ doors. Going back to all that would be like...accepting that I accepted that your not coming back." He sighed, confusing himself. "So that's why I would have you say that you're disappointed in me. So I can have ...clarification that its alright to go back. So I can have another reason _why_ I should go back."

He took his eyes off the plaque and let them drop down to the grass, He surfed his fingers through the wet blades, knowing this was the closest he would get to House. Knowing that just a few feet below from were his hand laid, Gregory House was resting. If it had been a private cemetery, if the damn rain had stopped falling for just a moment----he would've laid himself down. He would've laid right beside the grass on the earth, covering the buried casket. He would've pressed his ear to the ground and fallen asleep, listening to the faint whispers of his friend.

He put his hands to his knees and hoisted himself up. They found their way to his coat pocket, where contact was made with his car keys.

"Just because you can't be my Best Man doesn't mean I don't expect you to be there," he whispered, giving a little smile. Of course House would be there. He couldn't count the number of times he went grocery shopping or just taking walks when he felt that someone very familiar was walking by his side. His smile grew a bit wider, as he turned his body around, heading towards his car. He got inside, and wiped away something falling from his cheeks. A tear or a rain-drop, he couldn't tell.

A/N: Reviews, reviews!! Thank you! Sorry if this was a bit short.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Slight mistake on the last chapter...House's death-date reads "2007"...yeah, well I meant 2006. Sorry about that little error. Anyways, thanks for the reviews! I now present to you...well, the last chapter.

DISCLAIMER: David Shore's

EPILOGUE

_"Hello, This is Emily Watts. I'm not in right now, but if you leave your name and number, I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks!"_

"Hello, Ms. Watts. This is Dr. James Wilson from Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. I'm calling to remind you about your appointment tomorrow scheduled for 3:45 in the afternoon. If you need to cancel, I would very much appreciate it if you could give me a call. You have my card. If not, then I'll see you tomorrow. Thank you."

Wilson hung up the phone, sighing. It bothered him that he had to make last-minute calls to his patients because they would never confirm if they are showing up or not. The orange light hitting the glass doors reminded him that it was 7:30 in the evening, and about time to be heading off. He was about to get up from his chair when a familiar face stepped in.

"Hey," said Cuddy, carrying a friendly smile. Wilson returned the smile.

"I was just about to head off," Wilson explained, leaning back on his chair. Cuddy nodded.

"I like what you did to the office," she said, eyeing several movie posters, and medical degrees.

"Little bit of home," he muttered. She stayed silent for a few moments, perhaps choosing her words carefully...at least that's what he though.

"Listen, if you ever want your old office back---"

"--Cuddy," he interrupted her, softly. This time, he took a pause, choosing his words carefully.

"If House were here...I would fight for this office...because this is a _very_ good office."

Another pause. Cuddy waited, wondering if it was alright to laugh at this. When she saw a smile form on Wilson's lips, she chuckled. She put her hands up.

"I was just...just checking on you."

"I know, " he replied. She nodded softly.

"Have a good night Dr. Wilson," she said, turning on her heel.

"Good night," Wilson called after her. She would do that often. For the past year that Wilson has decided to come back to work, she would always "check up" on him, see if he's okay. He would almost find it hilarious that she might've been thinking he could run off any minute. Wilson wasn't going anywhere. He liked working again. An upside, he got House's office. It was much more roomy then his other one. Of course, there were plenty of memories. But there was also room for new ones, too. He gathered up his things, ready to go home.

"How was he today?"

Wilson placed a small kiss on his wife's cheek, who was in the kitchen.

"Well it took me almost an hour to get him in the bath..." Rachel started. Wilson groaned, loosening his tie. He walked out of the kitchen, placing his work-suitcase in a corner.

"Greg!" he called out.

He turned back to his wife, to confirm if Greg was upstairs.

"Greg, get down here!" he called out again, working on the laces of his shoes. He waited for a few minutes when he didn't get an answer, not even a sound.

"Gregory James Wilson, get down here!"

Immediately, he saw a small face appear from the top of the stairs.

"You have to chase me first!" Greg squealed, playfully.

"Don't make me come up there," Wilson said in a warning-tone.

"You can't catch me, daddy!!"

Immediately, the 7 year old boy had Wilson running up the stairs. he ran straight into his room, and onto of his bed. Wilson ran after him, and caught him just before he could run again.

"Ohh, you monster!" Wilson muttered, rubbing their noses together. Greg laughed.

"I missed you, daddy," he said in a small voice.

"Yeah? I missed you too," Wilson said, sitting his son down on his lap... "The Santa Clause" way, as Greg liked to call it.

"You took your bath?"

"Mommy made me," Greg replied.

"Well, Mommy wants you to be clean," he said, surfing through his son's light-brown hair with his hand.

"And now you're going to sleep," he added.

"Nooooo," his son replied, bouncing up and down on his lap.

"Yes, you are. Your gonna do it for Daddy."

"Tell me a story then," Greg replied, ironically giving in to the whole sleeping thing.

"Well, Mommy wants Daddy to be clean too. He's gotta go take a bath."

"Then after!!"

Wilson laughed, taking his son off his lap, and tucking him behind the covers.

"Alright, I'll come after,"

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart."

Greg smiled, and this made Wilson smile.

"You love me?" he asked. Greg quickly nodded. "How much?" he asked. Greg extended his arms out, and Wilson quickly reached out and tickled his underarms. Greg giggled loudly. "Stop, Daddy!!" he squealed. Wilson tousled his hair, then planted a kiss on his forehead. He got off the bed, and began to exit the room.

"You promised to come back for a story!" Greg reminded him.

"I'll come back, I promise!" Wilson called out, leaving a crack of the door open.

Later that night, Wilson came back to his son's bedroom, who was eager to listen to any story. He waited a long time to tell this particular story...

"Once upon a time, there was this mean old guy with a cane..."

A/N: Please review. Thank you so much for ALL the reviews, and I really hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it!


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